ADAM
Inever thought my Sunday morning would include a woman in my clothes pushing a shopping cart with a terrifyingly determined look on her face.
Amelia steers down the produce aisle, wearing my gray hoodie and black sweatpants—both far too big on her, the waistband cinched up high and knotted with the drawstring. She’s barefoot in my flip-flops, which I only ever use at home. They slap the tile with every stride, and I’m trailing a bit behind her, smiling at her. So much attitude in one small package.
“You know, we can always just order out.”
She spins so fast I back a step. “I wanted to go all-out on the morning after. You know, the works. Like you waking up to find me in nothing but your shirt as I flip pancakes and bacon.”
“Hmm.”
“But you neither had pancakes nor bacon. Not even salt or cooking oil.”
“In my defense, I planned to surprise you with pastries from the bakery downstairs.”
“You have so much free cutlery from takeout, it fills your pantry cabinet.”
I step close to her and tuck a strand that escaped her haphazard bun behind her ear. “It’s just me most of the time, so I don’t bother.” I tilt my head to the side. “You didn’t tell me you cook.”
“I don’t.”
I do a double-take as Amelia tosses a box of pasta and a pack of tomato sauce into the cart. “Wait. You can’t cook?”
“Nope,” she says with a popping sound.
“So, uhm, why are we even here?”
Amelia turns to me, hands on her hips. “How hard can it be? Just throw everything together and pray none of us gets salmonella.”
The laughter coming out of me surprises us both, and it’s loud enough that a passing old lady turns, pauses, and beams at us.
“You two are such a beautiful couple,” she says, clasping her hands together.
Amelia grins. “Oh, we are! We’ve been together our whole lives. We met when I caught him stealing my underwear.”
I cough. “That’s … not true.”
“But wouldn’t it be romantic, if not a bit creepy?” Amelia says, sliding her arm through mine and leaning her head on my shoulder. It’s hard to believe we’ve only seen each other last night, especially with how easy and light I feel around her.
I nudge her toward the dairy section since her list—God, she wasn’t kidding about her obsession with lists—includes Greek yogurt, heavy cream, almond milk, and popsicles. “You know, when I imagined our first date, I didn’t picture you in my clothes, judging me for not having salt and cooking oil.”
She shrugs. “Life is full of plot twists.”
“Agree.”
Amelia picks up a carton of milk, frowns, whispers, “This one says unsweetened, that one is vanilla, and the one beside it is simple almond milk.” She scrunches her forehead. “When did buying milk become so complicated?”
I lean in, trying not to smile too wide, and kiss her temple. “You’re exactly like your emails.”
“So are you,” she says softly, bumping her shoulder into mine. “Just taller and a whole lot hotter.”
Amelia moves to the Greek yogurts, mumbling about non-fat, zero, five, and two percent fat.
It’s in this moment when I feel like the two of us have broken off from the grocery store and begun drifting among the universe. The entire world ceases to exist, and she’s the only one I see.
She doesn’t notice how I look at her now. How I take in the oversized hoodie sliding off one shoulder, her bare face, and the glow of happiness on her cheeks.
Yeah, we’ve been naked together.
